“Journal entry, May 8th:
It has been three days since I’ve consumed alcohol. Bourbon calls out to me in dreams, tempting me in a voice that sounds like Ashley Judd’s soft Kentucky drawl. From within the darkened recesses of my kitchen cabinets Single Malts distilled on Islay scream like Mel Gibson in BRAVEHEART: “Freedom!” they call, and it is all I can do to not heed their plea. I wish they would just die and make the Queen cry or something.
Anyway, during this difficult time I have subsisted on a peculiar set of liquids known as “non-alcoholic beers,” which turns the meaning of “beer” on its head. Calling them beer is like referring to a hip check as great sex. You’ve got some of the same motion, but none of the fun. It’s madness!
Anyway, I record here my observations about these so-called near beers, so that other drinkers who hate themselves can partake with full knowledge of what is in store:
Clausthaler is the “best,” though I think its name is German for, “Doesn’t quite taste like a urine-soaked sock.” My German is rusty, though, so I could be wrong.
Kaliber is a weird concoction, sort of honey tasting, if honey tasted like non-chewable asprin mixed with Pepto-Bismol. Apart from the abhorrent flavor, all I can think of when I drink it is, “What the fuck is up with that K in Kaliber? It’s a C, you Irish git. It’s not Kounty Kork, is it?” But then again, maybe the Irish want us to think it’s German. If so, props to the People of the Leprechaun. You are wise.
Finally, there is O’Douls. O’Douls is an American brew, but wants us to think it’s Irish. One can hardly blame them. O’Douls is so inoffensive and tasteless that it’s barely there. It’s like the astral projection of near beer. It’s as though Clausthaler and Kaliber died and O’Douls is their ghost, which means I AM DRINKING THE DEAD!
End entry. More when I can.”